


trust your kind heart

by burglebezzlement



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: F/F, Post-Canon, Snow, Snowed In, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burglebezzlement/pseuds/burglebezzlement
Summary: This isn't Marta's first storm at the Thrombey estate. But it might be the most memorable one.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera/Meg Thrombey
Comments: 8
Kudos: 76
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	trust your kind heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [woodenpicador](https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodenpicador/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, woodenpicador!

“I don’t like you being out there, in that big empty house.”

Marta sighs and lets her mother take her hand. “I’ll be fine, mama.”

“You’re all alone,” her mother insists. “You’ll lose power. The last time we lost power here in town was 2015.”

“They tested the generator yesterday,” Marta says. “The dogs will be with me. I’ll be fine.” She also upgraded all the security systems and hired an assistant security guard to help Mr. Proofroc, but she hasn’t mentioned that to her mother, who already has enough reasons to be scared of the Thrombey Estate. Her mother has been to visit Marta, but she’s obviously not comfortable there. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“And what if you run out of food? And the water stops working?”

“Mama, I’ll be fine.” Marta hugs her mom. “I promise.”

Her mother sighs, obviously not convinced. Marta’s tried to get her mother to move out to the estate with her, but there’s always some reason why she can’t — Alicia not wanting to move schools, the commute to her mother’s job — and Marta’s focusing her efforts on her mother’s immigration situation instead.

*

The snow starts falling as Marta drives home. Her hat is wet by the time she’s done carrying the groceries in. She’s got the car parked off to the side, where the plow and shovel guys contracted to dig out the Thrombey Estate after storms won’t have to maneuver around it. 

She could use the garage, but Harlan’s cars are still parked in there, and it feels weird to park the Accent in there. Like stabling a goat with a herd of Thoroughbreds. 

When she’s done unloading, she can still see the lights from the security office in the gatehouse, but the lake is gone, fuzzed out by the snow and wind. The dogs are wet and snowy when they come in from their run, and Marta has to rub them down with the dog-towels she keeps by the door before she lets them go flop down by the fireplace.

When Harlan was alive, Marta spent every snow storm out here with him, just in case he had a medical emergency while the roads were unplowed. At first Marta thought he was genuinely concerned. Eventually, she figured out that Harlan loved the storms, and wanted someone to share them with. Any kind of storm — thunder, ice, snow — as long as there were high winds, howling around the eaves of the house, dramatically blowing the trees and ruffling the surface of the lake, Harlan was happy.

Marta grew up with the peachy-orange glow of the streetlights reflected against the clouds, the cozy light coming through her windows. The other buildings in her dense neighborhood blocked the worst of the wind, and the power rarely even flickered. She had to get used to the howling wind, the black-out snow that hid the few lights that were visible from Harlan’s house on a clear night. 

Harlan’s lost power in almost every storm. Sometimes Marta wondered if he wanted it that way.

The power’s still on for the moment, so Marta heats up some leftover stew with some of the bread she bought at the store. Bread, milk, and eggs — the holy trinity of Massachusetts winter storms.

 _French toast in the morning_ , she thinks. Harlan used to insist on it.

*

Marta’s on the couch in front of the fire, reading a book with only half her attention, when the dogs’ ears prick up. They jump up from the hearth rug, running to the doors in a furious clacking and barking.

There’s heavy snowfall outside, the thick flakes blowing sideways in the wind, fading off into dark night at the edges of the lights from the house. But the dogs are by the door, insistently whining, and Marta trusts them.

She turns on the porch light and looks out the side window, the one with the pattern of Death and the maiden. The maiden’s dress is clear glass, and through it, Marta can see someone standing on the porch. Standing in the storm.

Nobody should be out on a night like this. Marta unlocks the door before she stops to think. She doesn’t think to be scared until the door’s already open. Ransom’s out on bail, and while Marta doesn’t think he’d return to finish the job, there’s a reason for the updated security.

For a moment, the figure in the doorway is just a blur, and Marta’s heart jumps in her throat. But then it steps forward, resolving into Meg. Meg Thrombey, covered in snow, her hair hanging down loose and wet, tangled by the wind.

They stare at one another for a long moment before Meg breaks the silence. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Me okay?” Marta steps forward to take Meg’s coat. The wool is wet with melting snow. “Did you walk all the way from the gatehouse?”

“There wasn’t anyone there,” Meg says. The dogs are excitedly jumping up, sniffing her coat. She pushes them down and pulls off her hat, shedding snow onto the floor.

“I told the security guys to go home.” Marta gestures helplessly out the window. “I didn’t think anyone would be out in this.” 

She stares at Meg, the moment stretching out strangely between them. And then Meg shivers violently, and something is broken. “I’ll get you warm things,” Marta says, hanging Meg’s coat on the coatrack and heading into the house. She finds a long, warm sweater and a pair of slippers shaped like sharks that someone bought Harlan as a joke, and returns to find Meg in front of the fireplace.

“This always happens,” Meg says.

Marta hands her the sweater. “When else have you turned up covered in snow?”

“Not the snow,” Meg says, looking away. “Me trying to take care of you, and you ending up having to take care of me instead.”

Marta looks at Meg, and the moment draws out, long and uncomfortable. Marta can’t help herself. Can’t not wonder if Meg’s thinking of the same thing she is.

*

Fourth of July, the summer before it all changed.

The Thrombeys all gathered, like they did for holidays, for birthdays, for anniversaries and events. Harlan was the one who insisted on playing game after game of Mafia, although Marta noticed the way he let some of the players bow out, to take their political arguments and other assorted dramas to other parts of the mansion.

With Joni and Jacob and Fran eliminated, the final round came down to just Harlan, Ransom, Meg, and Marta (miserable after a round of lie-induced vomiting, but still held in place by Harlan’s stare). None of them knew that Ransom had gone to New Hampshire the day before, had bought out half of one of the sketchy fireworks stores at the border and set everything up by the lake, waiting for him to hit the remote lighter (totally illegal, horribly dangerous, very likely to start a fire, as Fran told Marta later) at just the moment when he needed a distraction to keep everyone from realizing he was Mafia.

The fireworks broke up the game, just like Ransom planned, and they all went out to the lawn to watch them. Joni complaining that Ransom hadn’t told them there’d be fireworks, so she could set her camera properly to capture photos for her Insta. Linda complaining about how irresponsible it was. How he’d set the woods on fire if he wasn’t careful.

Harlan had been delighted.

Marta hung back, by the house, in the darkness, arms wrapped around herself, looking up. 

She remembers it in flashes, like fireworks bursting. Meg, running down the steps from the porch. Looking back for Marta, coming back to grab her hand and drag her forward. The way Meg stopped, uncertain for once, on the path, and the way Marta was the one to step forward. Meg’s hand on her cheek, her back, Meg’s lips on hers —

Meg, backing away. Mumbling something Marta couldn’t catch, _something something power dynamic_ , and Marta left standing there alone as the last of Ransom’s fireworks went off.

*

They haven’t talked about it, but Marta’s thought of it, more often than she’ll admit, even to herself. It’s on her mind as she puts a pan of milk on the stove to heat for cocoa, even though Meg says she’s warm enough, says she doesn’t need it.

“I’m fine,” Meg says, again. “The roads were still plowed. My coat’s dry now. I can let you get back to —” She looks around. “Whatever you were doing.”

“You’re not leaving,” Marta says, looking at the window, where the snow’s blowing sideways in the light from the house, whipping away before it can build up on the sill. “It’s not safe.”

She makes the cocoa, tops it with whipped cream from a can. It tastes just like what Marta remembers from snow days when she was little, staying home with her sister and her mother in the apartment, cozy-warm after coming in from making snowmen in the park down the road. 

“Here.” She pushes a mug into Meg’s hands. “Sit down. Get comfortable.”

Meg follows her over to the couch in front of the fireplace and lets Marta hand her a blanket. “I’m sorry,” Meg says again.

“What for?” Marta takes a sip of her own hot chocolate, cautious of the heat. “This is still your family home. You’re always welcome here, Meg.”

“That’s not —” Meg trails off, looking into the fire.

Meg’s curled up against one arm of the couch, and Marta sits down on the far end from her. They sit quietly, listening to the wind, the dogs snoring, the snap of the burning wood.

“Maybe I should drop out of school,” Meg says. 

“What?” Marta turns to look at her.

“It’d be the right thing to do,” Meg says. “You wouldn’t have to support me anymore.”

“I’m not supporting you.”

“Pay my tuition.” Meg waves a hand. “Whatever.”

“I’m not,” Marta repeats. “Harlan set up trusts for all of you, Meg.” And one of the first things Marta did, once she found the right lawyers, once she was officially recognized as the Personal Representative of Harlan’s estate, was ensure that there would be enough money in all of the trusts for their school. Not just Meg’s, but Jacob’s, too. And she had discovered, when she asked, that there was a trust fund for her sister Alicia, as well, started by Harlan the year before. “I’m not the trustee. There’s a trust officer.”

“Oh.” Meg looks back at the fire. “Mom told me — she lied, didn’t she.”

Marta doesn’t say anything. She couldn’t lie if she wanted to. Not to anyone, but especially not to Meg. And Meg knows the worst about her mother already.

“Harlan wanted you to get an education,” Marta says instead. “If he hadn’t set up the trust, I would have. It’s the right thing to do.”

Meg says something, so low Marta can’t catch it. 

“You can talk to me,” Marta says. “You can tell me, Meg.” 

“I wanted to take care of you,” Meg admits, still not looking in Marta's direction. “Before the will was read. I wanted — I wanted us to be equals. That detective called you the help and I could have killed him, but that’s how we all thought, wasn’t it? I don’t think I understood that.”

Marta moves closer before she can think better of it, before her mind can interfere with what her heart has always wanted. 

“I don’t feel like I have to take care of you,” Marta says. “You’re not an obligation.” She wants to look away, but she makes herself keep looking at Meg. Meg’s eyes, dark and drowning, open wide. “Maybe it’s that I want to.”

Meg’s breath catches. “Marta —”

But Marta doesn’t hear the rest, because she’s leaning in, and then she’s kissing Meg. Meg’s still for a moment, just a moment, a heart-stopping moment, and then her lips move against Marta’s. Meg’s breath hitching as her hand runs up Marta’s arm, around the back of Marta’s shoulder. Pulling her closer, like she’s something precious.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” Meg breathes, when they part. She rests her forehead on Marta’s. “So long.”

Marta’s heart feels like it’s full of light. Like she could step outside and melt the snow, turning the dark to light, the cold to warmth, the ice to spring. “I have too,” she says. And whatever might come next, she knows she won’t be alone tonight.


End file.
